Like Love We Don't Know Where Or Why
by Lifeasanamazon
Summary: Nothing these days is ordinary. Not even the struggle.


Author: Angie

Email: AngieSuth@aol.com or angiesuth@hotmail.com 

Title:  Like Love We Don't Know Where Or Why

Characters: Toby / CJ (Toby POV)

Rating: PG

Summary: Nothing these days is ordinary. Not even the struggle.

Disclaimer: Not mine at all. The title comes from a poem by W. H. Auden, 'Law like Love'. The final stanza is quoted at the end. *

Spoilers: I don't think so.

Feedback: Always appreciated.

A/N: Thanks to the KE of AKE. And Kat. And * my * wonderful Rhonda.

This has an erratic time frame. I hope it's not too confusing.

*

Like Love We Don't Know Where Or Why

*

Seeing through the grit behind his eyelids seems a perfect analogy for his life: a struggle to function through niggling pain. It has always seemed to him that this is his price - the penance for the pearl. Only now he dives and dives and the fight back up for air is just that, a fight. And he's not sure it's worth it anymore. He's come back empty handed once too often.

 ~~~~~~~~

"Toby, will you please keep up!"

His mother's voice cuts through the Fall fog and he can almost see the steam coming out of her ears. She opens her mouth and he knows she has turned to speak to him; the irritation that he hears brought on by the pain in her throat, a result of chilled air hitting raw flesh. For now he's just glad she's still breathing.

"I'm coming, Mother."

He slips his hand into hers, presses up against her side. He's not quite as tall as she is, and he wonders, at ten years old he wonders, whether he will ever walk beside another and love them as much as he loves her.

"I could stay behind today, Mother, help you with Sarah, do the laundry. You could let David have a note, tell them I'm sick, tell them I won't be in school for awhile."

"Not again, Toby."

He knows she wants to say more, knows it hurts too much, knows what she would say anyway. She squeezes his hand nonetheless. He turns at the gate, wants to wrap his arms around her and never let go, but he sees Michael O'Neill, already knows his day will be hell and decides against going that extra mile. She looks him in the eye and reads his mind, sees his pain.

"Be strong. You are better than this."

And he knows that he is, tries to keep it in mind as the icy brown water washes over his head, as the stale stink of urine stings his senses, his face pushed flat on the cold white tiles.

When he's home and safe, he writes to forget. He writes to remember.

~~~~~~~~

The spoon clatters against the bowl and echoes through the empty house. He is used to this silence. Even when he was married, the idle chatter, the dissection and discussion of the common place irritated him, like scratching at a sore. What the hell is he doing, asking for it again?

He stacks the bowl and cup in the sink, dabs at a milk teardrop with a kitchen towel. He should wash-up, would wash-up as a matter of course ordinarily, but nothing these days is ordinary. Not even the struggle.

Coat on. Bag in hand. Off to work. Now that's a routine that has gotten him through the years.

"Morning, Toby."

"Ginger."

A nod of the head, a glimmer of a smile and he's through his first word.

The door shuts behind him and he stands transfixed.

 She remembered.

He closes the blinds and sinks into his chair, the creak and then the smell of leather assaults his nose, brings tears to his eyes_. It was a good gift, Sam. It would have meant a lot to her_. The unexpectedness of the thought makes him blink and forces the tears down his cheeks.  He leaves the other gift untouched on his desk. It means more than he can express.

She remembered.

~~~~~~~~

"Happy Birthday, son."

He reads the fragile note, the faded ink, the unheard words. The leather case shines dully, smells divine. 

She knew she wouldn't be there for his birthday, had planned for just that eventuality, had found the perfect present. David had given it to him, kept it safe for ten years, had followed her instructions to the letter.

He lifts the pen and finds it perfectly weighted, like her words; understated elegance, richness of spirit through material impoverishment.

His mother.

No-one like her, no-one good enough. Not yet.

He's twenty-one. It's time to get out.

~~~~~~~~

Toby senses movement in the Bull Pen, hears Will arrive and waits for the knock that doesn't come.  The best things about Will, he thinks, are that he knows when to leave Toby alone; he's not frightened of anybody now, not after his Presidential Meltdown; and he writes like an angel.

Or maybe she's told them, warned them to stay away, keep their distance and their health.  He wonders if she came in early or stayed here late, but he's not going to ask her, not going to tell her he's seen it, not going to show her how he feels about her leaving it there. He can't take another loss like the last, half a lifetime ago; he doesn't have enough air in his lungs.

He sits forwards and opens his desk drawer, takes out his yellow pad and lets his hand hover over the variety of pens lying there. His eyes don't stray to the leather box on his desk. He selects an old faithful and gets to work. It could almost be a day like any other.

"Toby?"

Will's voice is muffled on the other side of the door. Toby revises his earlier good opinion and then catches himself doing it. A reluctant smile and a hoarse voice,  "You can come in, I won't bite."

Will's head appears. 

"We have to be on the Hill in half an hour and Leo needs to see us before we go. Are you ready?"

"Am I ever?" He grabs his things and stumbles out of the room, eyes cast down just in case he sees her. He hasn't collected his thoughts yet, hasn't planned what to say. The words are not yet written in his mind and he knows that he can manage if only he can avoid a private conversation. He's worried he might cry.

Leo's office is full of people and Toby breathes in the relief of confusion, takes solace in the crowd.

~~~~~~~~

They all seem to be talking at once and most of it's utter crap, from what he can make out. Small wonder the candidate was annihilated when none of his advisors can speak in complete sentences.  Toby is tired of mediocrity, tired of giving way to those who have louder voices. He is better than this.

"No!"

He looks around to see who has spoken and is mildly surprised to find them all looking at him. He clears his throat and blinks quickly.  

"Does it not occur to you that voters respond to principles? He may not agree with what you say, but the average man has quite an effective inbuilt bullshit detector; he knows when you mean it, knows when you are swinging him a line. He knows when you sound stupid, when you are insincere and when you plainly can't be bothered."

The sweat on his upper lip makes him wish he could grow back his beard. 

"The average woman might have something to say about it too."

Toby turns to find the voice and is bowled over. He sees peaches and cream; red and gold; deep, deep crimson. He smells, she smells . . . fantastic. He is lost at last.

Sometimes a fake looks as good as the real thing.

~~~~~~~~

An elbow in the ribs and he knows he's missed something important.

"Wake up, old man, you're starting to drool."

He can trust Josh to rein him in, keep him in line. 

"What have I missed?"

"Well, that's a different story, but if you mean in the last five minutes, well Leo has noticed you don't look so good. I'm hoping for your sake that it's not the hangover from hell."

"Toby?" It's Leo again and this time Toby lifts his chin in acknowledgement. He swears he sees a glimmer of understanding hiding in the glare. Just as well there are McGarrys in this world as well as O'Neills.

"Yes, Leo?"

"I was saying . . . oh never mind. You look in need of some time with your family. Will can take your meetings. Head over to Andi's, spend some time with your kids; be a loving parent. Come back this afternoon."

"Okay." 

No fight, no argument. He can feel the room's eyes collectively widen. He has to get out.

His coat is lying on the couch as he left it. He picks it up and thrusts his arms inside, shrugging the garment on. If he got one thing from his father, it was an appreciation of a quality raincoat. That and early hair-loss. The rest he could do without. The hair-loss too, if he were honest with himself, if he were even the slightest bit vain. He smiles at the thought that vanity requires a certain level of self-esteem and although he knows that he is a clever man, he's never seen himself as attractive. It always surprises him when a pretty woman smiles at him. He has no idea why Andi married him the first time around, and he can understand why she won't do it again.

He pinches himself for remembering her kiss. He hates himself for not kissing her back. He puts her gift in his pocket and his fingers thrill to its touch.

The walk to his car is bracing. Maybe Andi will let him take them out, if he wraps them up well.

~~~~~~~~

"I'm cold, Toby, I wanna go back to Mommy."

"Come here, sweetheart. Snuggle up to me and I'll warm you through."

Toby scoops his sister into his thin arms and holds her close. He is as desperate for the warmth as she is; she as needy of someone to love as he.  They cling to each other in fear and misery.

Toby smells his mother on Sarah, sees her in the blue eyes, the serious face, the long dark hair. He would give anything to have them both in his arms, but he knows that by the time they return, she will be gone. He had taken Sarah out so she didn't have to see their mother die. He didn't think he could bear to see it either. Nor could he bear to see his father cry, David could deal with that as he always had done  - such an old head on such young shoulders, and not so much hate, never as much hate.

"Let's go and chase leaves, Sarah. I'll race you."

And they ran and they ran.

~~~~~~~~

Surely there has been enough suffering in his life. He has his children, more precious than any jewel, and the warmth of the sudden rush of love he feels at that thought is enough to wave away his melancholy for the family that is dead, or on the other side of the world. Or just plain not speaking to him. 

He knows that he has achieved success beyond his wildest dreams; to be the voice of the President, and not just any President, but this President who speaks his words as if they were his own and means them just as much. The honor is what keeps him going through his darkest hours. He doesn't turn to whisky out of need; just a semi-conscious desire to live up to the image of the tortured writer. Even the cigars have lost their appeal. And now a doting father. He feels he may have to shore up the façade. The outside is cracking and people are noticing. He'd hate for them to be curious about what's really hidden inside. Hate for her to know more than she already does. For him to need her more than he's already said.

The doorbell echoes round the empty house. He can hear it and knows that Andi's not avoiding him.  She's just not there.

His cell phone rings and he sees that it's her.

"Yes?"

He waits for her to speak. She doesn't.

"You rang me, CJ. What do you want?"

Still no response but he can hear her breathing. He needs to see her more than he's needed anything in his life before. Almost.

He hangs up and sinks down onto the steps in front of the house, oblivious to the curious glances of passers-by, conscious only of the cold on his backside and the backs of his calves. He's sure the babies are well wrapped up. He would have taken extra blankets too.

~~~~~~~~

"Toby, bring your sister inside. She's too little to be out in the cold."

He looks up at the strong woman towering over him from the top step, is relieved to see that she is not angry, just busy.

"I'm coming, Mother. Can I hold her for a little bit longer? Can I?"

"You can hold her as long as you wish, as long as you take care of her and love her and always do what is right for her."

He looks at his mother and notices suddenly the lines around her eyes and face, the unusually strained set of her mouth. He watches her brush her nicotine-stained fingers through her silver-streaked hair and he wonders what she might know that she didn't before; what the doctor had said about her throat and her cough. About how thin she had gotten.

He hopes with all his heart that he won't let her down.

~~~~~~~~

"Toby?"

A warm hand on his shoulder, long fingers pressing down onto the fine cloth of his coat. A squeeze. And she hasn't let go. Has lowered herself beside him, arm pressing against his, leg likewise.

"Don't get cold, you mustn't get cold, it's not good for you." The words come in a rush before he can stop them and he knows she's heard the panic in his voice, seen the sheen on his forehead (thank God for the beard). He knows that she can feel her gift in his pocket.

"How did you know I was here?" Better, more controlled, that's the tone to strive for, he thinks.

"Andi rang just after you left, to say that she was going to visit her mother. Ginger called me and because I am a saint, or an idiot, I said I would try and find you. I didn't realize I would get lucky the first time."

He looks at her now. See the slight reddening at the tip of her nose, the water in her eyes from the chill of the wind and he can't help himself; he throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him, uncaring that their height difference makes the move an awkward one, caring only that he warms her. He feels her give into him, feels her hand snake around his waist and her face turn into his neck.

"Thank you for my pen." Once again the words are out before he has had time to write them in his head. "I haven't looked at it yet. I . . ."

He feels her lift her head, but her hand stays in place.

"Maybe you should open it now, Toby? Or are you scared?"

"Scared?" His eyes widen and he realizes that he is. He is scared that she loves him like his mother loved him, understands him like his mother did, sees the little boy that he was, the man he has become. He is scared that she has been there all this time and he has never appreciated it, never taken advantage of it, never allowed himself the chance to find out, just in case, oh God, just in case he lost her.

"Open it, Toby. It's real. I've had it a very long time, just couldn't seem to find the right moment to give it to you. It matters to me that you have it, that you like it. I think you'll like it. I don't think I can take it back now."

He turns her face to him and sees that she is scared too, that she has been talking for the sake of talking, because she is frightened what words he might find to fill the silence.

"I have been very unhappy, CJ. I still may be unhappy. It's a personality trait; deeply entrenched." He looks at her with a suggestion of a smile. 

"You are better than that, Toby." She stares at him and he can feel her vulnerability.

It's a sign. He is not a superstitious man, mostly, but he truly believes it's a sign.

He holds his breath and dives in. He knows where the deepest treasure is. It's in his pocket and in his arms.

The End

*

_Like love we don't know where or why_

_Like love we can't compel or fly_

_Like love we often weep_

_Like love we seldom keep._


End file.
